Zinnia and the Bees

by Danielle Davis

  “Whoa.” Luckily, Birch catches the jar. Lou’s ergonomic coaching must be working.

  “They’re rosewater almond,” I say.

  “Sort of like Mildred’s ice cream from charades night.”

  “Yeah. Mildred made them. They’re pink from beet juice again. She says hi. Actually she says, ‘Bonjour, sugar dumpling.’”

  “Cool,” says Birch. “Thanks.”

  “She also says to brush your teeth like it’s going out of style after eating them.”

  “OK,” says Birch, laughing. “I got it.”

  “OK,” I say. I gave him the peace offering after being so terrible and blaming him for Adam and Crowd Pleasers, so now I can leave. But wouldn’t you know it, Lou’s got a new motivational poster hanging on the wall by the door. This one has a picture of penguins jumping from a tall glacier into the ocean with the word courage in capital letters underneath. The quote says:

  “COURAGE IS RESISTANCE TO FEAR, MASTERY OF FEAR — NOT ABSENCE OF FEAR.”

  — Mark Twain

  Ugh. Thanks, Mark Twain. Thanks, glacier-jumping penguins. And thanks, Lou, for your motivational posters.

  I turn around to face Birch. My mind feels tangled up like seaweed. I try to breathe as deeply as I can. I try to master my fear like Mark Twain says.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  I start to turn back around again but Birch is looking at me expectantly, like I’ve made a pause and not a full stop. I stay facing him.

  “Um, there was this volunteer at one of Dr. Flossdrop’s pet adoptions,” I say.

  Birch listens. The way he always listens.

  “Anyway, she said that when dogs bite, it’s usually because they feel threatened. Like scared that they’re going to be hurt, or they’re in danger.”

  When I finish my bizarre dog speech, the only sound left in the room is Lou’s television streaming in from the kitchen and the faint buzz of bees in my ears.

  “So you were a scared dog, and that’s why you bit me?” asks Birch, barely masking his smile about calling me an actual member of the animal kingdom, not just an honorary one.

  “Yes. That’s what I’m saying. I’m saying sorry. For blowing up at you. I didn’t mean it.”

  Instead of responding, Birch pries the lid off the cookie jar and retrieves two pink mounds. He hands one to me and takes a bite of his own. I do the same. A big sugary, doughy, rosewatery bite. We stand together, eating floral cookies, the sound of chewing added to the room.

  “I’m sorry too, for what I said that wasn’t too sensitive. And I forgive you,” says Birch. “Some dogs bark and some dogs bite, and that’s just the way it is.”

  “Ugh. Thanks.”

  “Kidding. Of course you’re not a canine. You’re a flower. Zinnia, remember? A flower with bees on her head.”

  I nod and roll my eyes and nod some more. I finish my cookie. Birch has reminded me why I showed up here the other day — to talk to him about my plan… before we saw Crowd Pleasers and everything fell apart.

  We both sit down on some kind of massage table Lou has like it’s a regular bench. My feet dangle, and Birch’s touch the floor. I definitely smell peppermint being this close to him again. I look at Birch, and he hands me another cookie.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Hit me,” he says, so I do. Softly on his plaid shoulder.

  “Ouch.”

  “Sorry. Are you interested in another secret mission if I tell you what it is up front this time?”

  “Hmmmm. That is an interesting question.” Birch scoots off the table and rests his elbow on a giant turquoise plastic ball of Lou’s. He makes puzzled thinking faces. Then he finally stops stalling and answers. “Yes.”

  That’s it. He says yes. After how I acted. After everything. I guess I should’ve known he wouldn’t hold my bite and growl against me.

  “How do you feel about neighborhood action projects?” I ask.

  “Big fan,” he says.

  “And writing an email that uses adult vocabulary?”

  “At your service.”

  I tell him about my plan, which I’m calling Operation Flora Bomb. I ask about getting Lou to help us with some shopping and explain Dr. Flossdrop’s original tree-planting neighborhood action idea.

  “So I guess you didn’t need my naturalist expertise to help figure out your bee problem after all,” says Birch.

  “I guess not. But I still need you for this,” I say, which makes Birch’s eyes get all sparkly.

  When I leave, I get to thinking how Birch and my initials put together make BZ. As in buzz. Which I have to say is pretty weird. But pretty cool too.

  24

  OPERATION FLORA BOMB

  This is it.

  I’m sitting at the meadow wearing some frilly pink gardening gloves Mildred lent me. My hood is exceedingly hot and, of course, full of bees, but not for long if today is a success. One frilly pink-gloved hand is submerged in a box of pebbles that I satisfyingly clink together, counting the clinks.

  Then I spot Lou trekking toward me. At least, I assume it’s Lou because of the athletic pants and great strength he’s exhibiting — he’s carrying a giant bag of soil, another giant bag of fertilizer, and a huge flat of flowers. The stack is so high I can’t see his face. Behind him is Birch, carrying one flat of flowers and some trowels. A canister of water completes his pyramid. Amazingly, nothing topples over. I can’t help but feel proud of him.

  I remove my hand from the pebbles and wave to Birch. “Over here, Coach!” I yell to Lou, who probably can’t see thanks to his stack of supplies.

  They amble over and set down their loads. Lou stretches his hands to the sky and his back cracks.

  “You finally called me Coach,” he says. “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

  “Consider it payment for helping me today,” I say.

  “I won’t consider it that at all. I know the truth,” says Lou. He pauses for effect. “You’ve wanted to call me Coach for years.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” I say.

  For a moment, the three of us stand there. Just when Lou looks like he’s about to dive for some push-ups in the grass, Birch says, “Well, let the dig begin!” He rolls up his sleeves and hands me a trowel.

  “You mean the bomb.”

  “Right. Let the flora bomb begin!”

  And we do. We flora bomb.

  We dig holes. We drop the flowers in the holes. We tug at their spindly roots to help them latch onto the soil. We add more soil and fertilizer. We cover them over and pat down the dirt. We stream a little water from Birch’s canister over the base of the stems.

  At least Birch and I do. Lou eventually wanders off to do core exercises in the tall grass somewhere.

  “My mom told me that studies show people who come in contact with dirt are happier than other people,” says Birch. “My mom gardens, and she’s really happy.”

  Knowing Birch, neither of those facts is a shock to me.

  I take off Mildred’s pink gloves so my hands can come into contact with dirt. I haven’t really done anything like this since the bean-sprout experiment in fourth grade. I feel a little happier already, just like the studies show. Optimistic at least.

  But there’s still a whole lot of flora bombing ahead of us before Aunt Mildred arrives — with Dr. Flossdrop and the neighborhood action members — for the unveiling. It’s not like a yarn bomb, where you do the work beforehand. We’ve only got a fairly measly bed of flowers in the ground so far, and the sun is getting high and hot.

  I’m distracted momentarily by a trio of butterflies nosing around the flowers we’ve already planted. They’re tiny ones — two yellow, one white.

  And then I see it. Another insect flies nearby. A bee! I hope it’s one of my bees.

  I stare down that solitary
bee while it lollygags around the flowerbed. It ducks into an orange poppy, and I picture it sipping nectar and harvesting fluffs of pollen onto its little legs in there. The way it’s meant to. I silently wish for her to tell her friends or siblings or queen or whoever needs to be notified about the pollen buffet.

  Birch looks totally absorbed in what he’s doing. He’s too much in his gardening zone to notice anything as small as a bee. I hope on my own. I telepathically will the other bees to leave too, even though that’s never worked before. But this is different. I adjust my hood slightly, opening up a tiny pocket of air in the front. An escape route.

  I keep planting, and I can feel sweat droplets in a rivulet down my back and behind the creases of my bent knees. I wipe some sweat from my forehead, a place I can easily reach. When I bring my arm back down, there are more bees lollygagging around the flowers in the ground.

  These must be my bees. I can tell. I know them by now. There’s a small stream of air coming from my hood. I can actually feel them slowly departing.

  Can this really be happening?

  I hope they have a good time. I hope they become drunk on floral delight. I hope they all join in the flora bomb as soon as possible and forever.

  We spend the next hour or so working without talking much. Me, Birch, Lou. I keep my hood on, waiting until the time is right to check if I can take it off completely. If I’m really, truly free.

  By afternoon there’s an explosion of flowers in front of us. Which is fitting for a flora bomb. The ones I know the names of are lavender, poppies, cosmos, oversized purple daisies, plus my namesake, zinnias. We planted a whole rainbow of them that Birch and Lou insisted we get when we were at the store. The bright gold ones are my favorite.

  Even more bees frolic around the newly planted flowers. Like, a whole huge bunch of bees.

  I feel lightheaded. Literally.

  I slowly bring my hand near my hood. I pluck it off so it falls to my neck. There’s no force field feeling. There’s no squirm. I tap my scalp, tentatively, bracing for what I might feel there.

  I feel… hair. My hair! My hair that I haven’t actually touched — except for wet in the shower — in so long. I’d forgotten what it felt like. It feels like hair! On the bee-greasy side, but still my own wild, curly hair. I pat my head like a beauty contestant who’s just been crowned, not quite believing I’ve won.

  Birch is staring at me.

  “Wow, I’ve never seen your hair before. It looks a little like a bees’ nest actually,” he whispers.

  I splatter a handful of dirt on his shirt — plaid, of course.

  “Just kidding,” says Birch. “I really like your hair. It suits you perfectly.”

  “Thanks. I like it too. More than I ever knew.”

  By the hottest part of the afternoon, we’re finished. We’ve even spread pebbles around the top of the flowerbeds so they look fancy.

  Flora bomb complete.

  Bees gone from noggin.

  “That was the best,” says Birch.

  Of course best makes me think of best ever, which makes me think of Adam. Adam who isn’t here. But that doesn’t sting the way it did just a few days ago.

  I feel like what Mildred said the day Adam left was true. He had something he needed to do. Something he’s great at and deserves. And despite the fact that he kept it a secret from me, I know he won’t forget about me in the process. Just like I won’t forget about him, even though I’m doing new things too.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t trust me, I realize. I think it was that he had to trust himself. And that meant doing it without me. Looking out over our flora bomb, I understand.

  Birch is right. This is my new best ever.

  I reach over and give him a high five. His hands are caked with dirt, and his fingers are longer and skinnier than mine, and it all feels just right.

  25

  UNVEILING

  At four o’clock on the dot, a whole bunch of people start showing up. Neighbors, dental patients, Lou’s clients. Even the neon-bandana bike-riding guy from the neighborhood is here. The lady who sweeps up trash. The multiple dog walker, some kids on skateboards, and older kids with headphones on.

  And NML. I added them to the list of email addresses I gave Birch, the ones from Dr. Flossdrop’s neighborhood action list. I decided I didn’t want to hide from them anymore.

  They’re here. They’re walking toward us.

  “Hey, it’s NML!” says Birch.

  “Shh,” I say. “I mean, yes.”

  “Hi,” says Lupita.

  “Hi,” say Margot and Nikki.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “This looks really great,” says Lupita. She’s wearing purple like she always does.

  “Thanks,” I say. And then silence. I really don’t know what to say after that. Awkwardness hangs in the air. I count the number of skinny headbands Margot wears — seven.

  Then Birch speaks up to save us.

  “I’m Birch, Zinnia’s other friend. I wonder if we could all go swimming sometime this summer.”

  “Sure,” they say. It’s that easy.

  “I’ve never been in a swimming pool,” Birch continues.

  “What?” everyone else present says.

  Oh, Birch. I’m sure NML will revoke their answer now. But I don’t back away from him. Birch was right when he said he’s my friend.

  “Yeah, I’ve gone swimming in the ocean up north, but it’s really cold. I’d like to try being in water that doesn’t give you goose bumps.”

  NML and I shake our heads like this is the saddest thing we’ve ever heard. We’re doing it all together so it’s kind of like NMLZ again.

  “You really need to go in a pool,” says Nikki. “It’s like roller-skating. It’s fun to do once in a while.”

  I glance at her in surprise. I thought NML didn’t roller-skate anymore. Maybe they do, though, and the thought of us roller-skating together again someday makes me excessively happy.

  Still, I change the subject before Birch can tell us he’s never heard of roller skates.

  “Thank you for the yarn,” I say. “I got it. And… I wanted to say sorry. I was wrong about you guys turning me in. And I’m sorry about last year… the way I acted. I was probably pretty weird.”

  “You’ve always been pretty weird,” says Margot, but her face is sunny when she says it, so I know she’s just teasing me. If she can tease me like that, it means we’re really fine.

  NML say their goodbyes, and Nikki does a cartwheel as her exit.

  I look at Birch.

  “The flora bomb worked,” I say.

  “It was a good idea,” he says.

  “It was a good email,” I say. “Sounded just like Dr. Flossdrop.”

  “Well, her neighborhood action list is pretty loyal,” he says. “And a meadow beautification project is a very popular idea.”

  “Yeah, there were a lot of signatures on that original tree petition,” I say.

  Just then I spot Mildred walking toward us with a woman who I can only assume is Viviana. She wears blue-and-white stripes and a wide sunhat and looks like someone who might be learning French.

  Viviana and Aunt Mildred each carry one handle of a big bucket filled with bottles of lemonade. They have a slightly confused Dr. Flossdrop in tow. Of course Dr. Flossdrop’s wearing all black, except for her white lab coat. And her hair is back in a bun again. And, of course, Milkshake wheezes in her arms. But at least it’s a healthier wheeze than before. I finally understand what all those people on our walks might see in him. Maybe, just maybe, he’s really sweet.

  Out here, in this sunny square of the meadow, the air feels as charged as lightning with Dr. Flossdrop’s approach. I’m just waiting to hear thunder — or feel rain.

  Dr. Flossdrop is about to say something to me when the whole group of people g
athered at the meadow starts clapping as though this were the end of a play, and it’s time to applaud. They’re clapping for the neighborhood action. And for Dr. Flossdrop. After all, as far as they know, this was her neighborhood action.

  Only Dr. Flossdrop looks confused. She turns to me, and I nod. Her face lights up the way it does when a donation for the library comes in. She points to me and then to the flowers, and I nod again. She gestures toward me in front of the crowd, and then she starts clapping too. Now they’re all clapping for the meadow beautification we’ve done. For me and Birch.

  I consider it, but I can’t bring myself to do Adam’s fancy bow.

  Then the clapping dies down, and people go back to chatting. Lou gives me a thumbs-up sign and winks as he leaves the meadow with one of his clients. Before Dr. Flossdrop has a chance to say anything, Mildred says, “Bravo, bonbons.”

  Luckily Birch is the kind of guy who doesn’t seem to mind being called a miniature candy. “Merci,” he says, which comes as a surprise that makes us all laugh.

  Mildred pets my hair. “You look nice not all covered up, my petit cheri,” she says.

  “Wow,” says Dr. Flossdrop, taking in the burst of flowers.

  I think that she thinks I did this just for her. That I’m taking after her in the neighborhood action department. And she’s a little bit right. It was nice to do something for her, something she would like. Plus, I figured the city wouldn’t object to flowers, especially once they were already in the ground. But I also did it for me. I run my own hands through my bee-free hair. I did it for all of us.

  “Zinnia,” says Dr. Flossdrop, “this is very, very… useful.” She looks so pleased her eyes are actually brimming with tears. The happy kind.

  “Thanks,” I say. My head feels incredibly light and still and quiet and clear.

  But Dr. Flossdrop isn’t finished. “It’s also delightful,” she says. “Which is just as important.”

  “Oui, a work of art,” adds Mildred.